Don't Look Back (Unless You're Ready to Fall)
by cornisbetteronthecob
Summary: If he's being honest - and he's usually not - it all started with a hangover. But, if he's calculating it right, at least 82% of his problems are related directly to alcohol and none of those had ended in murder. He'd have to ask JARVIS to crunch the numbers for a more accurate standing, but for ballparking it he can't be far off.
1. Chapter 1

If he's being honest - and he's usually not - it all started with a hangover. But, if he's calculating it right, at least 82% of his problems are related directly to alcohol and none of _those_ had ended in murder. He'd have to ask JARVIS to crunch the numbers for a more accurate standing, but for ballparking it he can't be far off.

He's also going to ask JARVIS how the hell he gets all the bad luck in the world thrown at his feet, like a cat leaving its kill on the welcome mat. Except he's the bird that can't flap away quite fast enough and winds up with a broken neck for its trouble. That probably means that the universe is the cat in this metaphor. Fuck cats, he's never much cared for them anyway.

He spits out a mouthful of dust and dirt, lifting his head just a fraction to take in the scene falling to shit around him while he's lying on the floor, arms framing his head like they'd actually stop a bullet and collecting all the dust bunnies in the parking garage on his custom-tailored Armani suit.

A gunshot sounds, too loud in the open space and and he flinches away on instinct. There's a teeny _ting_ of metal on metal and then a car horn starts blaring. It mixes with the bleating of his own car's alarm, the shouts, and the scuffle of fighting to create an orchestra from hell.

He clamps his hands firmly over his ears to muffle the dissonance and it's a long few minutes before he sees Happy ambling towards him. He's moving faster than Tony's ever seen him and he's panting by the time he reaches Tony, hooking his hands under Tony's armpits and dragging him to his feet.

"Are you hurt, boss?" Happy asks between breaths. And all Tony can manage is a small shake of his head as he stands, partly on his own but mostly held upright by firm hands that are shaking a lot less than Tony's legs.

There's a small cut high on Happy's right cheek and his forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, but other than that he appears unharmed. An immense wave of relief washes over him. He's alright. More importantly, Happy's alright.

"He ran off. I should've chased him down but I didn't want to just leave you here, not knowing if..." _you'd been shot or blown to hell_ , the silence implies, but instead he cuts himself off with, "Can you walk?" Tony opens his mouth to reply and promptly clicks it shut when no sound comes out. He settles for a nod. Happy studies him over and Tony drops his gaze in case the fear still clutching at his heart with icy fingers is visible in his eyes. The grip Happy has on him loosens cautiously, like he isn't sure if Tony can support his own weight, but he doesn't comment further.

Tony allows himself to be ushered towards the elevator that will take them back up to the conference he is most definitely late for. He totters forward on stilted legs, every step jerking, a tin man that's joints are rusted through.

Happy presses a button and the elevator doors glide shut. Tony keeps his eyes trained on the colored circles above the door, blinking on and off as they ride past each floor. He ignores the side-eyed scrutiny of the other man, smoothing his suit and gripping the hem in a vain attempt to stop his hands from shaking.

"We're on the wrong floor," Tony says dumbly when the elevator dings and the doors open to reveal a long hallway with rows of doors along both sides.

"You're not going back to the conference, not after that. We're going to Miss. Potts's room to wait for the police. I've already called, they should be here," he pauses to check the time on his watch, "soon actually."

"Pepper is going to kill me for screwing this up," Tony protests, taking a step back, further into the elevator. Only to have Happy propel him forward with a hand pressing into the flat of his back.

"Not this time she won't," Happy assures him with a pitying look. Tony stands his ground for all of two seconds before he capitulates, letting Happy steer him down the hall to a door almost all the way at the end. He waits while Happy fishes a key card out of his pocket and waves it in front of the door. There's a beep and the light on the handle flashes green to admit them entry. Happy reaches around him to open the door when Tony doesn't move to do it himself and shepherds him inside.

"Bathroom. I'm just gonna...go. Do that. Bathroom. Be...be right back," Tony flaps a flimsy hand in the direction of the only other doorway inside the room and Happy only nods, already turning back to lock the door.

Tony walks with deliberate steps, keeping one hand on the wall as he does to keep himself upright. He gropes around for the light switch, flicking it up and shutting the door as the bathroom is cast in a yellowed glow.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, eyes closing as he pulls in shaky breath after shaky breath. He stays like that, hunched over the sink, clutching at it white-knuckled, until the staccato of his heartbeat slows to a lazy jog.

He runs a hand down his face before taking a look at himself in the mirror and immediately wishing he hadn't. He looks wild, the lesser known and much nicer dressed cousin of Tarzan dragged from the jungle and dropped on society's doorstep like a bad joke. His hair is a bird's nest of tangles, sticking out in every direction and he's got a hunted, frantic look in his eyes. The suit he's wearing is unfathomably wrinkled and everything about him is covered in a fine layer of dust. Some if it's caked into clumps where it's mixed with his sweat. He's pretty sure that if he ran into himself on the street he wouldn't recognize the man standing in front of him as Tony Stark.

Tony twists the tap on full blast and splashes water on his face, scrubbing at it with his hands until most of the grime is gone. He contemplates running his head under too but he pauses, water cupped in his hands, and decides it's a lost cause. Splaying his fingers, he releases the water and watches some of the stray droplets settle on his shirt and jacket with a dull sort of acceptance.

There's a washcloth hanging on a rod above the toilet, the ends carefully folded and tucked to a tight triangular point. He tugs it free and flicks it, ruining someone's hard work, before he dries his face and hands. Tony leaves the soiled rag on the counter and wanders from the bathroom to find Happy, avidly avoiding his reflection on the way out.

His chauffeur is standing by the door, posture rigid like he's expecting another attack any second. He tips his head toward Tony who waves two fingers in a weary salute.

There's an ugly chair calling his name in the far corner and he's tempted to leave his jacket on when he sits. The dirt certainly couldn't make the vomit-green plaid pattern any worse. But there's a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like a certain redhead he knows telling him that just because he can doesn't mean he should.

And thinking of Pepper creates a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach since trying to get himself killed and missing his speech has definitely landed him a spot at the top of her shit list. So he peels the ruined jacket off - because there's no way it's coming back to life without a mad scientist and a perfectly timed lightning storm - and lets it drop to the floor.

There's a series of sharp raps on the door and Tony doesn't startle at the noise. He just...chooses that moment to jump a little bit, that's all. Happy leans over so he can fit an eye to the peephole but otherwise doesn't respond.

"Open up. We know you're in there. You're the one who made the call," the door between them does nothing to muffle the exasperation in the guy's voice.

"You got a badge?"

"Open the goddamn door."

Happy's hand finds its way into his jacket, hovering there. _Where he keeps his gun_ , Tony thinks, feeling his back stiffen.

"Not until I see some ID." There's a pause but when it's clear that Happy isn't going to yield he hears an even quieter "oh for fuck's sake!" And Tony can't see the guy, obviously, but he likes to think that the man is throwing both his hands up in theater worthy dramatics before digging in his pocket for some identification.

There's a smack of something hitting the door. Happy, still huddled against it, hums his approval after a couple beats of scrutinizing the thing through the peephole and then steps back to undo the locks. He pulls the door open and makes room for whoever is on the other side. Tony doesn't miss that his hand stays close enough to the gun for easy access.

Tony expects a cop, maybe two, dressed in that classic navy blue that's fueled the fantasies for so many stripper grams. What he gets is a man in an eyepatch with a severe case of resting bitch face and an honest-to-god cloak that hangs to his ankles.

Huh.

He can't stop himself from looking over to catch Happy's eye, earning him a confused one shoulder shrug and twist of the lips, before speaking. "You're not the police. He's not the police," Tony says, jabbing a finger at Eyepatch and addressing Happy. He gets an arched eyebrow from the newcomer in response.

"I dialed 9-1-1, boss," Happy apologizes, making it sound more like a question. His brows are furrowed, which is, well. Not reassuring. At all.

"We intercepted it. You've gotten in way over your head. We're here to help."

"Um." Tony blinks, unsure where to start.

"You're making something and someone wants it. Bad. I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?"

Under Eyepatch's scrutiny Tony feels like a beetle on a pinning block, painstakingly needled in place. It makes his skin itch and takes conscious effort to stop from wringing his hands together. "I'm a businessman. I make a living selling things people want. Comes with the territory," he shrugs, trying to keep his tone even and bored.

"Didn't think so," Eyepatch sighs, sounding the part of someone who hoped for better, but gets exactly what he expected all along. The disappointment is something he's familiar with. Well, join the club. If he had a nickel for everyone he's let down, he'd be rich. Well, richer.

"Let me just save you the trouble of lying through your teeth, Stark." And ouch, that stings a bit, even if it _is_ exactly what he had planned on doing, should it come to that. "We know you're working on something big. Something they seem to think they can use to carry out whatever-the-fuck plans they've been dumb enough to come up with. We don't want them to get it. So, we're going to stop them. And let's face it, it'll be easier without you underfoot the whole way."

Tony readies himself, a denial on the tip of his tongue. And then, for some reason that he can't quite put his finger on - other than the fact that it's been a long day and he's tired and the guy obviously knows something, but not all of it, or he'd be making a bigger show of it - he swallows the well-practiced lines and rubs a hand over his face instead. He leaves it resting at his chin, too tired to even finish the motion.

"Let's say I do have a pet project and someone does want it. Hypothetically." He holds a hand up when it looks like Eyepatch is about to interject, cutting him off. "I don't want whoever 'them' is to have it either. Which means at least until this thing is over, we're on the same side. I can work with that. So, what? We both start digging, find out who did the thing, take care of the mess, and get on with our lives?"

"Not quite," Eyepatch says simply. And Tony knows a red flag when he sees one. Hell, he's the one causing them more often than not, he _should_ know.

He narrows his eyes, suspicious. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Stark, that you're going to stay out of it. Ah, ah, my turn to talk. We're going to set you up with a bodyguard, take you to a safe house. You'll wait there, like the impatient man you are until we clean up the mess. And then you can go back to being the public dumbass the tabloids all know and love."

Tony waits for the punchline, because this has to be a joke. There's no other way around it. But the guy is standing there, tight-lipped, and Tony's had enough.

"No, you no what? No deal. Tell the banker to keep the briefcase, Mandel. I'm going home, drinking my weight in bourbon, and sleeping off the booze if it takes a week. I'll figure it out on my own. Have my people call your people. Or not." At some point in his tirade he's found his way to his feet, leveling a finger at the asshole who shows up in a goddamn cloak and has the audacity to try and banish him from his own life.

"It's already been settled. Miss Potts agrees. She wants you safe and she thinks this'll be the best option."

"You don't get to talk to Pepper. She's mine," Tony interrupts with a huff. Using Pepper against him isn't fair. He won't admit it, but there's a smug smirk on Eyepatch's face that tells him the guy already knows and will gladly do it again. There's a sick twist in his gut, but he clenches his jaw against it and stands his ground.

"We've got a place no one's going to find you. Your driver can drop you off. Your protection will already be there waiting. With any luck we'll have this wrapped up and tied off with a bow before you get bored enough to do something stupid," he continues, like Tony never spoke.

"No. No way, not happening. Not a chance. I'm not getting tucked away in a tower somewhere to sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting for you guys to find and take out some bad guys that obviously spend too much time watching Sunday morning cartoons as a primary source for their evil plans. Come on, Hap, we're leaving."

Happy acknowledges the order with a shallow nod, suddenly all business as he steps forward.

Tony squares his shoulders, straightens his spine, and steps around Eyepatch. Having Happy at his back gives him a sense of comfort and he feels the familiar mask of his public persona slide into place. "Thanks for playing, Patches. Better luck next time," he grins, a practiced flash of teeth. Eyepatch doesn't speak again until Tony crosses the threshold into the hallway.

"We know who it was."

Tony freezes, stilling so fast that Happy almost stumbles into him, only keeping himself from barreling into Tony with an almost comical sidestep and a small flail of his arms.

"What?"

"You heard me." There's a smugness to his voice that sets Tony's nerves on edge. He wheels around to see the matching smirk on his face - he's really starting to hate that expression - and arms folded across his chest. Tony really, really doesn't like this guy. It's been less than five minutes. That's got to be some kind of record.

"Who is it then?" Tony asks, aiming for casual and hitting a few octaves too high.

"Justin Hammer."

And of course it is. Tony really should have guessed that one. Only Hammer would be stupid enough to come up with a murder plot that involved shooting him and blowing him to a million bits in one go.

If there's one person who would play dirty to get his way, it's that asshat. No, that's not quite right. Hammer actually prefers the scumbag method whenever possible. He's not happy unless he's pissed off at least twelve people before breakfast. And Tony doesn't exactly regret being an asshole to the guy, because he deserves it and definitely started it, but it would explain why he put a bomb in Tony's car and then tried to seal the deal with a bullet in his head.

His shoulders slump.

"Well, fuck."


	2. Chapter 2

"I've got a job for you."

"Don't know if you missed it, 'Tash, but I've kind of got one of those already," Steve laughs.

"It's not this job," she replies.

"Kinda got that vibe. Just, uh, hold on a sec." He fumbles the phone to his other hand then pinches it been his ear and right shoulder. "Sorry, just needed both hands to pack. What were you saying?"

"He's already packing? Nat, he's packing? Didn't think he'd cave that fast."

"Get off my line," Natasha clips at the same time Steve asks, "Clint?"

"The one and only," and Steve can hear the grin in his voice even over the phone.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but there are plenty of Clint's in the world. And if you don't hang up right now I'm going to replace you with one of them."

"That hurts me deeply, Nat. Don't think I'll ever recover. You hearing this Steve? You heard her right?"

"Am I on speaker?" Steve is finished shoving his workout clothes into his bag, hefts it over one shoulder and lets the phone slide into his hand so he can hold it without getting a crick in his neck.

"Conference call," Clint explains.

"I didn't add you."

"I took the liberty of adding myself."

"Well, take the liberty of un-adding yourself then. This is time sensitive, Clint, stop messing around."

"Go be sensitive to Steve's time then. I'll just be here, ya know, supporting." Clint has sounded far too gleeful during this whole exchange and Steve smiles despite himself.

The night air is refreshing after his time in the gym, a cool reprieve as he leaves the building, and there's a slight breeze that carries the early smell of fall. His apartment isn't far from the complex's fitness center and he's already a few buildings away from his place when they finally seem to remember that he's on the line.

"Steve?"

"Still here, just, you know, mildly curious about this job offer you've got that's so exciting you had to call me this late at night when I've got a perfectly nice job already."

"Yeah, get a move on," Clint chimes in. "Time sensitive remember? And I think you're keeping Steve up past his bedtime. Job offer, go. Inquiring minds want to know."

That gives Steve reason to pause. Clint is naturally antagonizing in an endearing sort of way, but he and Natasha are thick as thieves on their worst days. If he doesn't know why she's calling, that means she's reached out to Steve first which is, not impossible, but also highly improbable under normal circumstances. The whole thing feels suddenly off.

"What's going on?"

There's a beat of silence.

"Now look what you've done," Natasha's tone sounds disapproving but not worried, which doesn't reassure him in the least.

"You're the one who made him use his Captain voice. I'm an innocent bystander."

"Nothing about you is innocent," she disagrees wryly.

Steve listens to the banter while he digs his keys out and makes his way into the tiny, studio flat he calls home. He tosses the duffel bag unceremoniously at the couch before he joins it, sinking into the cushions and letting his head fall back against the curve of the couch.

"Stop ignoring me," Steve grumbles, annoyed. He feels like an umpire that's found himself in the middle of a hockey match. That is to say, completely unneeded. All he wants is a shower and his bed.

The bickering cuts short.

"Whatever the job is, I don't want it. I'm perfectly happy where I'm at."

"No you're not." It doesn't sound like an accusation, just simple fact, and there's something akin to sympathy in Natasha's voice as she says it that makes Steve feel like she can see right through him. She probably can. "But that's beside the point. This is important. Look-" she starts, but Clint injects.

"On a scale of "I forgot to replace the toilet paper roll" to "hostile alien invasion", how important are we talking? Take a minute to think on it; there's a big difference. It could really make or break the entire negotiation, Nat. Get mad all you want, I'm just- ow! What the hell, that was my good kidney. What are you-? Gah, stop! Steve, save me, she's going to- ack!"

There's a squawk and then the line goes dead, leaving Steve listening to dead air. He pulls the phone back far enough to see that the End Call screen is blinking at him and then the home screen appears, noting that the call is, indeed, over. Exasperated, Steve snaps it closed and drops the phone to the coffee table with a clatter.

Picking at his albeit mostly dry but still sweaty shirt, he stands. There's a buzz and then a generic marimba ringtone fills the air. Natasha's name appears on the tiny screen, her personal number, not her office number this time.

He hesitates, but the thought of ignoring his friend is already sprouting a seed of guilt in his chest so with a final, forlorn glance in the direction of his bathroom, he scoops the phone up, flipping it open and answering in one practiced motion. It would take him less than 24 hours to regret the decision and wish that, for once, he had just ignored the call.

Muffled Russian filters through the earpiece and Steve thinks that maybe she's butt-dialed him but then her voice sharpens. "It really is important." Steve is taken by the sincerity of it. He tries to hold out, he really does, but Natasha's silences are even more poignant than her speech and Steve finds himself squirming under the weight of it.

"What do you need?" he capitulates, throwing in a sigh for good measure.

"Just your babysitting skills."

"...my what?"

"You heard me."

"Don't you have people for that?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. Natasha must be able to hear his brow furrowing in confusion because she speaks again after it's clear he has nothing to add.

"It's...complicated. Kind of a long story."

"I've got time," he shrugs, although the gesture is pointless over the phone.

"Well, we don't. I'll fill you in on the way. Just, trust me on this, okay? Pack some clothes, I'll be there in twenty."

"I haven't even agreed to go! I don't see why you can't at least give me a little more to go on," Steve protests.

"Remember how Clint asked to borrow that one game of yours for the Thanksgiving office party?" Natasha asks, such a non sequitur that Steve actually sputters into the phone with surprise.

"What? I thought he was kidding. He hated that game." He's not pouting about it, even if the tone of his voice is a bit on the sulking side to his own ears. Just like he hadn't pouted then, when Clint had made the request after a night of complaining about it, proclaiming that it was a sure way to tick off everyone present. It's been sitting on the top shelf of his closet since, collecting dust.

"Yeah, turns out we won't be needing it. Fury found it, kind of on accident. Some people in a couple different departments here at the office have it already. But you know how it goes- something interesting comes up and suddenly everybody's listening in."

Her voice is light but Steve finds himself standing at attention, presses the phone tighter against his ear. "Sure, sure," he matches her unaffected tone, or close enough. "But time's a ticking, guess I need to go pack."

"You do that. See you soon." The line goes dead for the second time in five minutes but this time Steve knows it won't ring again until Natasha's outside. He really does need to pack, but his mind is whirring. Something's wrong. More than she's letting on.

Conflict. That's the name of the game Clint had asked to borrow, an old boardgame from the 1940's that wasn't even in circulation anymore. He'd found an old, mostly faded copy of it at a rundown thrift store a few years back and had picked it up, more than happy to pay the whopping 55¢ price tag for a trip down memory lane.

Bucky had rolled his eyes while Steve shelled over the silver coins to the thin, balding, and unimpressed cashier standing behind the counter. "Found yourself a relic. Probably missing some pieces," had been the man's only comment as he dropped the coins in the register without counting them, pushing his wire-frame glasses higher up his nose with his other hand. Steve had thanked him, taken his receipt when it was offered and spent the whole way home recounting to Bucky about the times he had played it with his grandmother back before she had passed away.

"I know, Steve, I remember. I played with you guys half the time," Bucky had thrown his hands in the air eventually.

"Good," Steve had beamed at him, "Then you'll remember how to play. I'll set it up when we get home." Bucky had had a stricken look on his face, like a mouse that just realized too late that the cheese wasn't just good luck after all. It was too late to take back his admission. Seeing the refusal brewing in his eyes, Steve had given him what he had hoped was a convincing puppy dog pout, his smile faltering, and Bucky had folded like a cheap lawnchair.

"Fine, but loser does the winner's laundry for a month." Steve had gone back to grinning. "Deal."

Steve smiles, thinking back on it. Bucky had complained the whole time, mumbling under his breath about how they didn't even live in the same complex and "this was a horrible idea". But he had stuck through it, even when Steve had tried to let him off the hook, and Steve had thoroughly enjoyed a month of free laundry labor.

He shakes his head to clear the memory, realizes he still has the phone pressed to his ear and snaps it shut so he can shove it in his pocket.

In so many words, Natasha was implying that Fury had found conflict, lowercase 'c', in several departments and that there was a good chance that their conversation may have been listened to.

Considering that SHIELD is what it is - part government, part independent, all mystery (seriously, he's even worked there for awhile in between jobs before and still isn't entirely sure what all they do) - it could potentially be every bit as big of a deal as Natasha had hinted it is.

He spends the rest of the time coming up with different scenarios in his head while he takes the world's quickest shower and shoves a haphazard assortment of clothes and things he might need into a clean bag he pulls from the back of his closet. He can't help his gaze from straying to Conflict while he's in there, the tagline 'War Game' boldly printed beside the name.

He closes the door.

Unsurprisingly, Clint is riding shotgun. Steve folds himself into the backseat, bag in tow.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," Clint greets him.

"She never does any permanent damage," Steve grins and Clint scoffs.

"Tell that to the guys in Burma. You've got him totally fooled!" he jabs at her in accusation. Natasha arches an eyebrow and he doesn't lower the finger he's waving at her, but he does pull it closer to his body so it's no longer on her side of the car.

"So," Steve rubs his hands together, catches Natasha's eye in the rearview mirror. "What's really going on?"

And she really wasn't kidding when she said it was a long story. Clint is relatively quiet, by Clint standards, seemingly content with kicking his feet up on the dash and reclining the chair so far back that Steve sidles to the middle seat to avoid getting squashed.

Most of the information he gets about the goings on at SHIELD are vague, generic explanations and Steve feels like it's almost scripted. And it would probably sound that way too, coming from anyone else, except Natasha's too good at her job to make it sound like anything less than an organic conversation. He knows her well enough to know that she probably (see: definitely) knows more than she's letting on, but Steve shakes off the unease that comes with the realization. If she's holding back she has her reasons. And Steve trusts her unequivocally.

So he listens and nods in all the right places, biting back the questions burning his tongue, doing his best to read between the lines in case she squeezes any subtle hints into the explanation for him to pick up on.

From what he gathers, there is a group of people (more than one, less than all) working for SHIELD under false pretenses. Whether they started with betrayal on their minds or walked into it mid-employment is unknown but less important than the fact that they're now siphoning proprietary information of some kind and passing it to yet another mysterious subgroup of people (or person, yet another number they aren't sure about) outside of SHIELD.

She doesn't give specifics on what they've taken either, but she says enough for Steve to know that it's a weapon of some kind. One that no one had previously had the power source strong enough to really get it off the ground, or at least not until it had gotten leaked that some world-renowned engineer had been working on and was close to a successfully crafted prototype of something that could possibly do just that.

So SHIELD had created false blueprints to use as a red herring to catch the corrupt employees in the act of stealing so they could follow the trail to the third party buyer outside the company. What they hadn't counted on was the thief deciding to take out the person who had created the thing in the first place, instead of taking it straight to the vendor for his cut of the profit.

"Think his eyes turned into actual dollar signs when he thought about how much dough he'd be getting?," Clint asks, shrugging unapologetically when Steve chides him. "Not the dumbest decision, that's all I'm saying."

"The guy thinks he has the only plans on earth in his hands. Taking out the only other guy that could possibly recreate them would have given him a lot of leverage with the asking price."

Clint snaps his fingers. "Exactly. I'd be tempted in his position, not gonna lie. What? Don't look at me like that. I'm just being honest. We can't all be as righteous as you. Plus, just think about it; you could get enough money to install a jacuzzi in every room of your house."

"Clint, don't murder people for hot tubs," Natasha rebukes.

"Ya know what? You're both uninvited to the jacuzzi party. All of them."

"I prefer that," Natasha says while Steve shakes his head and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

"Jerks," Clint huffs, crossing his arms and turning enough to stare out the window. Steve can see his bottom lip in the reflection of the glass, protruding comically far out as he pouts.

Steve turns his attention back to Natasha as she pointedly ignores Clint and launches into the part of her explanation that finally lays out exactly why Steve is here. Her storytelling becomes a lot more colorful as she talks about the attack on the engineer, a guy by the name of Tony Stark, which sounds oddly familiar, and he wonders if the copious amount of details here is to make up for the lack of them in their discussion of SHIELD.

Mr. Stark had been attending some kind of annual conference when one of the rogue SHIELD employees, Justin Hammer, had tried to take him out. Steve can't tell if the guy has the best luck in the world or the absolute worst.

On one hand, he survived the attack with no major physical injuries. On the other hand, there was the fact that the plan to kill him even existed in the first place.

Apparently the industry is a magnet for crime in general, because aside from Justin Hammer there was also a petty thief roaming the garage, breaking into and pilfering things from random cars parked there. Steve doesn't have to wonder about what kind of luck that guy had, because Tony's car had been one of the vehicles he planned to ransack.

Even if the bullet from Hammer's gun hadn't hit him in the back of the head, leaving him to slide lifelessly to the ground, the bomb rigged to explode when the door unlocked would have finished the job.

And Tony had been there to see all of it. His driver/bodyguard/sometimes assistant, Happy Hogan, had been there to keep him safe. Justin Hammer is still on the run, which explains why he needs protected.

"But that doesn't explain why you need me, exactly."

"We don't know who all we can trust at SHIELD right now. And we can't risk handing Tony over to chance."

"So why couldn't one of you do it? Or put him in witness protection or something."

"He'd never go for it. Wouldn't change his name," Clint snickers, seemingly done being upset. "And I'm leaving for another totally top-secret mission in the morning."

Steve looks over to Natasha. "I just don't want to." Well, at least she's honest.

"You'd probably kill him before the week's up," Clint points out.

"That too."

Conversation peters out and Clint turns the radio on to fill the silence. He fiddles with the stations until Natasha threatens to cut off a very important body part if he doesn't pick a station and stick with it.

"Geez, no reason to get violent. Pick and stick, got it," he mutters, mostly to himself, and leaves it on one that can't seem to decide what genre it wants to be. Natasha glares when the last few notes of a 90s pop song fade, only to be replaced by some kind of throat singing sounding vaguely like a Christmas carol, and Clint leans back, lacing his fingers together and placing them behind his head.

"Picked and sticked," Clint hums triumphantly, with no remorse for the grammar he crushed to make his joke.

Steve's chuckle dissolves into a series of coughs when Natasha's annoyance switches its focus to him. He gives a few more coughs to really sell it, thumping his chest for effect. "Asthma," he apologizes.

Everyone in the car knows that Steve hasn't had an asthma attack since high school, but no one comments, and Steve swears the redhead's glare softens the tiniest fraction.

"Me too. Asthma," Clint says, coughing weakly into a closed fist. "Oh, what, so it's cute when he does it, but I'm not allowed?"

"You're walking home," Natasha answers.

"It was a joke, a joke! Don't you have those in Russia?" Clint cries as the car actually comes to a stop, Natasha maneuvering smoothly to the curb. His mouth opens and closes, reminding Steve of hungry fish at a pet store all fighting over the colorful food flakes floating at the top of the water, working uselessly when no words come out. Natasha simply shifts into park.

"Out," she orders, pointing over Clint's shoulder.

Steve looks between the two of them, surprised. He wonders if his jaw is hanging open like Clint's.

"Nat!" Clint pleads, but she cuts him off with an eye roll.

"Seriously, Clint, out. We're here and you need to make sure Steve gets to the room. Fury wants visual. And to make sure Stark's still in there. Guess he got here a little bit ago, should be all settled in by now." The corner of her lips twist in mild amusement.

Clint's mouth forms an 'o' in understanding and Steve sees his own relief reflected in his expression.

"As for you," she continues, turning in her seat to face Steve. "Just let the clerk know you're in room 209 and she should have the key ready for you. Keep your phone on you in case there's an emergency and check in at least once a day. And I already called your boss so everything's squared away on that front too. You're welcome."

"Thanks, 'Tasha," Steve breathes out, sincere.

"Didn't want you waking up at 3 in the morning thinking you needed to deal with it. You're a horrible liar, no, Steve, don't even try to deny it, so I took care of it. You're all set. So just, be careful alright? No unnecessary risks. It should be pretty quiet, but just keep your eyes peeled. Call my personal line, too, not the office. If the lines are bugged they already know we called you, but officially we've got you down as accepting an undercover thing in Jersey."

"Oh. Okay," he says slowly, and he's still processing the information when the sound of a motor whirring joins the thumping beat of an old rap song coming from the speakers. It takes a moment for Steve to place the sound as Clint raising his seat so that Steve will be able to crawl out on the right hand side.

"Uh, thanks, I think," Steve says to Natasha, before he shuffles sideways to extricate himself from the car, almost forgetting his duffel and having to lean back in to retrieve it. Clint hesitantly steps out beside him, although he doesn't let go of the car door.

He ducks his head to ask nervously, "you are still going to be out here when I get back, right?"

"Depends on how long you take," Natasha shrugs, indifferent, already flicking through something on her phone.

"Thanks for the ride." Steve waves goodbye as he says it and Natasha looks up from her phone long enough to give him a soft smile. "Talk to you soon. And, Steve? It's all going to be fine."

"Alright buddy, time to go. We're on an vague and unspecified deadline that I can't afford to miss." Clint says, unwillingly releasing the car door and clapping him on the shoulder.

Steve only glances back at the car once. Clint, on the other hand, is practically walking backwards in an attempt not to let it out of his sight.

It takes no time at all for Natasha's last, reassuring words to be turned on their ear.

Steve is thumbing through tacky tourist guides on a standing wooden display while Clint goes to collect the room key. It's better if Steve interacts with people as little as possible, they decided. It's unlikely that he'll be recognized, but he argues that it's better to err on the side of caution.

He jumps when Clint appears silently at his elbow, hissing "that dick took both the keys. Come on," and stomping off towards the stairs. Steve looks over to the counter to see if the girl noticed anything, but she's already got her eyes trained back to her computer screen.

He hurries to catch up with Clint who's still grousing about the key. "He had the same instructions as us. One key. One. Even a monkey can count that high."

"Maybe he got them both by accident?" Steve tries.

Clint snorts. "You don't know Stark. He definitely took them on purpose."

"Oookay," he draws out in response, still unsure why it's such a big deal but choosing not to comment further.

Clint pounds harder than strictly necessary on the door to the room when they do reach it. The 9 rattles precariously, already hanging on by its last screw and swinging upside down so that it looks like an unevenly attached 6.

"Who's there?" comes a gruff voice and Steve opens his mouth to answer, but Clint beats him to the punch.

"Mail-order babysitter."

The disembodied voice is not amused. If anything, there's an even sharper edge to the tone when it sounds again. "I'm going to need to see a badge."

Steve looks wide-eyed at Clint - is he supposed to have a badge? - and Clint shrugs and frowns, looking just as confused as Steve feels.

"Yeah, uh, not really the kind of operation that uses badges. Left my undercover agent name tag in my other pants too," Clint tells the peephole, patting at his front and back pockets for effect.

"Clint," Steve admonishes, because even though this place seems oddly deserted it's probably best not to go around announcing to the public at large that there's an undercover anything going on.

"Then go get one."

"It's fine, Hap," comes a second voice, this one more exasperated. "Just give us the password and we'll open the door."

"Password?" Steve mouths silently, hoping that Clint knows what's happening. Steve is, well, thoroughly flummoxed now. Natasha didn't say anything about this.

Looking back, Steve swears he can actually see Clint's patience snap down to the very millisecond. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, he grits his teeth so hard a muscle jumps, and his right eye has started doing this weird, twitchy thing.

He looks all of one second away from just kicking the door in or stomping away with his hands thrown high, so Steve leans over enough that he hopes the guy on the other side can see him in the lens.

"Look, uh, sir, we weren't given any badges or passwords or, um, anything like that. But my name is Steve? Steve Rogers. Uh, here, hold on," he trades the duffel bag to his left hand and fumbles his driver's license from the wallet in his pocket with his right. He holds it up in front of the peephole, guessing on how far to hold it so it's readable from the other side. "All I've got is my license. Sir."

"Just let them in." It's the second voice again, sounding weary this time.

Clint is tapping his foot impatiently. "You heard the man, let us in already."

Steve keeps his license suspended in from of the peephole, unsure of removing it, until a faint snick signals that whoever is on the other side is turning the lock. He jams the plastic card back into his wallet and hastily returns it to his jeans when the door reluctantly swings inward.

Clint pushes through, not willing to wait for it to open all the way and Steve follows him in with an apologetic wince.

"Who are you?" Clint and Voice Number One ask together. They both look extremely annoyed and it's Voice Number Two that cuts them off.

"Settle down, boys."

Steve turns, ready to introduce himself and feels the words catch in his throat. The guy - Tony Stark, it's definitely Tony, he recognizes him from the photo that Clint had shown him during the car ride over. Although the Fu Manchu mustache that Clint had painstakingly painted on the image with the pad of his finger before passing the phone to Steve is suspiciously absent.

Tony is sprawled across a wooden chair which looks like it has the structural integrity of wet cardboard and is about as soft as sun-baked concrete, taking up as much space with his body as possible. His legs are thrown over one side, an arm over the other, and his head lolled back against the chair back.

He's wearing sunglasses - really? Indoors? At night? - and a suit that probably costs more than Steve's annual salary twice over. There's a feline grace to his posture, all loose and confident. It strikes Steve that it feels too perfect, too orchestrated, too much like he's putting on airs.

Tony tilts his head, arches an eyebrow, and Steve snaps back to himself, clearing his throat and cutting his eyes away.

His gaze falls on Clint and the other guy, staring each other down in a silent stand off. Clint has stopped pointing in favor of crossing his arms and puffing out his chest, chin tilted up. The other guy is doing his best to appear relaxed, but his hand is resting just under his jacket. Gun, Steve thinks immediately, tensing.

Steve offers his hand when it's clear that no one else is going to make the first move, keeping his movements slow. "Steve. And this is Clint." It's a statement, but sounds more like a question. The man doesn't move at first, but Steve holds steady, and eventually the guy reaches out to take his hand. "Happy Hogan, at your service. Tony's driver," he finishes, and Steve doesn't miss that he's picked the most unassuming of his job titles to offer up, connecting the dots to what he learned from Natasha earlier.

"Wasn't expecting two of you," Happy says, dropping his hand.

"We can say the same," Clint drawls. Steve takes a step back so he's in Clint's space enough to give him a subtle elbow to the ribs.

"He's got an early flight so he's a little grumpy," Steve says by way of apology. "He's not staying though, that's, uh, me I guess."

"You guess?" Happy asks, and Steve is getting really tired of all the suspicious stares he's getting. "What do you do exactly?"

Clint's reply cuts in before Steve can even get his mouth open. "He's Tony's temporary bodyguard. SHIELD sent him. Credentials are on a need-to-know, so," he shrugs. "Call Fury if you want to confirm it, but don't blame me when snaps your head off and tells you the exact same thing."

Happy studies him a moment longer, and Steve is relieved when he finally seems to accept it. He sniffs, unhappily. "And no badges?"

"Sorry," Steve apologizes, holding his hands, palm up, in surrender.

"So who are you then?" Tony has been watching the exchange quietly from his makeshift throne, but suddenly speaks up. "Or is this like a choose-your-own-adventure kind of thing? I pick my favorite? Just so we're clear, I'm looking at you, tall, blonde, and muscular." He's pulled the sunglasses down far enough to peer over them.

His eyes are on Steve, giving him an appreciative head-to-toe once-over before his chocolate irises lock onto Steve's. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Steve feels a flare of heat on his cheeks. He breaks the gaze, momentarily disoriented, and admires the peeling wallpaper high in one corner.

"You couldn't pay me enough to stay, asshole," Clint scoffs.

"What'd I do to you?" Tony asks, voice laced with feigned hurt.

"You took both room keys," Clint says, like it's a personal affront. Steve, wisely, stays quiet but he side-eyes his friend. There's something more to Clint's thinly veiled animosity, but he doesn't know what it is and Clint doesn't seem forthcoming.

"I wasn't supposed to? An accident, I assure you," Tony widens his eyes as he speaks, playing at innocent, but Clint's scowl only deepens.

"Riiight. Well, whatever. Look, as much fun as this has definitely not been, I've gotta go. I'd stay and tuck you in, Steve, but Natasha is definitely going to kill me if I don't get going."

Tony catches Happy's eye and gives a slight nod, which must convey some kind of unspoken communication because Happy returns it and his posture eases into something less militaristic.

"I guess, I should go too," Happy adds reluctantly. They're upping security at the Tower, and I need to make sure everything's done up to code. We've got badges." The last part is aimed at Steve and Clint.

"Good idea," Steve says, fighting back a smile. He's not sure why the guy likes the things so much, but maybe he'll ask Tony about it later.

Steve follows them into the hall as they leave. Clint grabs him, a firm hand on each shoulder and a serious look on his face as Steve's ever seen. He's expecting something a lot more serious than the "good luck," Clint gives him and he can't help rolling his eyes, huffing out a laugh.

"I'm going to go get shot at by terrorists tomorrow. Actual terrorists with actual guns and missiles. And you're still the one I'm feeling sorry for right now," Clint confides, voice low, eyes flicking to where Happy is standing, still frowning, a few steps away.

"He's a good man," Happy cuts in. "Bit of a handful sometimes, but a good man. You keep him safe, or you'll be answering to more than just me."

"I will," Steve tells him even as Clint gives his shoulders a final pat and he steps away. The two make an odd pair and Steve watches them leave, trying to simultaneously ignore each other but also be the first to reach the exit.

Left alone, he shifts from foot to foot, suddenly nervous to return to the room.

"Coming back any time soon, sweetums? You're letting in a draft." Tony's voice is falsely bright and Steve worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

But Steve has never backed down from a fight, even one he knows he can't win, and he's not about to start now. So he does what he always does- he wraps himself in the brand of stubborn that no Rogers is born without, squares his shoulders, and meets the problem head on.


End file.
